


Trio's a Crowd

by orphan_account



Series: Chamber Music [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, M/M, Music AU, String!Lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:57:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two may be company, but Irene has other ideas. Cellist!Irene. Again, not beta'd or britpicked; all errors my own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trio's a Crowd

“No, no, no, John. Down bow there, and then slur the next two!”  
John scribbles a few marks in his part, clutching his viola and bow in one hand. He drops the pencil onto the stand, licks his lips and prompts, “from 71 again?”  
It’s been an odd transition, John thinks, since Christmas. Sherlock has been dragging out every violin/viola duet he can find and rehearsing them for audience of exactly zero. Sometimes, after they serenade the skull and John is exhausted and musically sated, Sherlock, in a stunning display of affection, gives John a back massage. John offers to return the favour, but it always ends up with the two of them nestled up on the sofa pressing lazy kisses against jaws, necks, and collar bones.  
“No need to go that far back. 86 will do. I have the pick up.” Sherlock raises his violin to his chin and huffs his mild impatience as John clamoured to find his pitch and get his bearings from the indicated bar.  
Locking eyes, Sherlock sniffs--- “You’ve a visitor, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson breaks into their concentration.   
Grimacing at the interruption and the prospect of social interaction, Sherlock sets down his violin and walks into the kitchen to put the kettle on.  
John tucks his viola into its case, latches it shut, and then almost drops the whole thing as Irene Adler saunters into the flat.   
Removing her stark white gloves, she offers John a tight smile and says, “Miss me?”  
John gapes, but Sherlock just rolls his eyes.   
“Shall I bring up some biscuits, then?” Mrs Hudson offers from the doorway.  
“No thank you, Mrs Hudson. Miss Adler won’t be staying for long.” The landlady shakes her head disapprovingly, but bustles out of the room.   
“Oh how splendid! You always did strike me as a violist, John. The two of you ready to storm the concert halls?” Irene renews her icy smile, but her eyes soften as she turns her gaze to Sherlock.  
“That’s quite the neck mark, Sherlock. All from violin?”   
Sherlock stares daggers into the woman. “What are you doing here?” Sherlock demands.  
“I was in the neighbourhood,” Irene teases, “thought I’d drop in on my favourite couple.”  
She looks to John’s face, anticipating an announcement of heterosexuality and lack of interest in his mad flatmate. What she sees, of course, is a fierce blush. John purses his lips and glares at Irene.  
“It seems you’ve changed your tune, John Watson,” she giggles. “He treating you well, then?”  
“I treat him just fine, Irene. Now what are you doing here?” Sherlock’s patience is running thin. The moment of the rehearsal is ruined, but there’s still a chance John will consent to another partner activity as soon as he can get the woman to leave.  
Sensing tension, Irene stands from the sofa and gathers her jacket. “Always lovely to see you, Sherlock.” She places her hand on Sherlock’s cheek and blows a kiss to John, then saunters out of the flat.  
“I still don’t like that woman.” John grits.   
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks upwards, realising how tense and possessive John has become. He walks over to John and pulls him into an embrace, kissing his hair. “Back massage?”  
“Not right now. Right now I need you.”  
Sherlock is more than happy to oblige John, and so as he bends down to capture John’s mouth in a sloppy kiss, his long fingers set to work on unfastening John’s trousers.  
John gasps out, “Don’t you want to go to the bedroom?”  
Yanking John’s belt free, Sherlock slips his hands under John’s tee-shirt and growls, “I want you to take me right here.”  
“In the living room?” John yelps as Sherlock’s tongue swipes over his now exposed chest.   
“Mmm,” Sherlock hums. The detective pulls down John’s trousers as he simultaneously sinks to his knees on the ornate red carpet. It’s not the plushest of surfaces, but he wants to feel the heat from the fireplace and to see the music stands looming while John fucks him.   
John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and moans softly as Sherlock licks at his cock.   
If Sherlock Holmes is good at only one thing, it is at perfecting nearly everything he does. And Sherlock Holmes gives a damn near perfect blow job.  
Not long after, with John breathing heavily and sweating from both his orgasm and the fireplace, Sherlock rolls onto John’s chest. Propping himself on an elbow, Sherlock leans down for a quick kiss.  
“So measure 86, then?”  
John rolls his eyes and groans.

xXx  
Bills, bills, wrong address, oh hello, what’s this?  
John leafs through Thursday’s post as he trudges up the stairs. Sherlock ran him positively ragged on a case last night, and he’s just gotten home from a long day at the surgery. He hopes Sherlock is up to some experiment or cleaning out his mind palace or something to give John a break.   
Flipping over the large envelope, John searches for a return address. Blank. With a shrug, John slips his index finger under the flap and tugs. Sheet music. Perhaps Sherlock ordered something new for them? But no, this isn’t a duet. It’s a trio.   
“Sherlock?” John calls out.  
“Kitchen.”  
“Sherlock, does Mycroft play cello or something? We’ve just gotten an unmarked envelope in the post with sheet music for a Beethoven string trio.” John holds up the music with a little wave. “E flat major?”he says, making a face at the key.  
Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Mycroft played the violin as well, though he was rubbish at it. Dabbled in piano too, but never cello.”  
“Any ideas who it’s from then?”  
“Several,” Sherlock responds darkly, and the conversation is over.   
xXx  
“Crime has gotten quite boring of late,” Sherlock comments over his cup of coffee.   
“That’s nice,” John replies, slathering jam over a piece of slightly blackened toast. He crunches down on it, wiping crumbs from his mouth as he logs onto his blog.   
“Oh honestly, John.” With a snap of the morning paper and a particularly violent eye roll, Sherlock reaches over to brush bread crumbs from John’s dressing gown. Just another Friday morning, thinks John pleasantly.   
“Thanks, dear,” John teases. For that, Sherlock steals a bite of John’s toast, smearing jam across his mouth. John swats away the detective’s hand and leans across the table to lick the strawberry smear off his flatmate’s cheek.  
“Charming, John.”  
“Mmhmm,” hums John, pleased with himself.   
Sherlock decides the paper isn’t worth his thoughts anymore, and he stands up to look over John’s shoulder as he pecks at his keyboard.  
Suddenly, lanky arms wrap around John’s shoulders, and kisses press down the left side of his neck. Sherlock’s lips pause at the deep pink mark left by John’s viola, just under his jaw bone. He licks at the stubble there, and flicks a cursory glance over the text that John has painstakingly tapped out.   
“You’ve spelled that wrong. No ‘U’ there.” Sherlock returns to nuzzling at John, hoping the man will realise that Sherlock is after a morning practice session and some heavy snogging.  
There is a clattering in the hallway and suddenly the door to 221B is thrown open.  
Irene Adler stands in the doorway with a sleek red cello case strapped to her back.  
John recovers first. “YOU.”  
“Me!” She confirms with a giggle. “Did you get my present?”  
“Beethoven, Irene? Honestly, I would have thought you to have better taste,” Sherlock replied.  
“And in E-Flat major, too,” John adds. “What a terrible key.”  
“I simply thought with all the fun you two have been having with your little duets, the three of us might be able to spice things up with a trio.”  
“So you waltzed into our flat with a fucking cello?” John demands.   
“I suppose I assumed our darling violinist here would have deduced it, and you’d be expecting me.”  
Closing his eyes and silently cursing himself for not seeing her calluses (yet lack of a neck mark), Sherlock turns to John. He opens his ocean coloured eyes and issues quietly, “John, fetch your instrument, if you please.”  
Arching an eyebrow at the word “please”, John slowly turns and jogs up the stairs. Sherlock sets to pulling out his own instrument, and arranging their kitchen chairs in a small arc.   
“I haven’t a third music stand.”  
“I planned ahead,” Irene smirks. Reaching into a small pocket on the side of her case, she pulls out a small, folding music stand.   
John returns, and the three unpacked their instruments in silence. John and Sherlock sit on the outsides, facing each other. John eyes Sherlock nervously, his eyes narrowing with his distrust and disapproval of Irene. Sherlock tries to keep his face still, gives a small quirk of the corner of his mouth, hoping to reassure John.  
Irene adjusts her end pin one final time, and finds a good notch in the floor. She strokes the neck of her cello almost provocatively, and turns to Sherlock. “From the top, love?”  
“We’re just going to run through it like that? I’ve never even heard this piece,” complains John.  
“Tut tut, such a violist. You’ll be fine, it’s a viola part,” scolds Irene.   
John gapes at her, and looks to Sherlock to come to his aid. Instead, he finds his flatmate holding his violin up, ready position.   
“I’ll start,” Sherlock commands.   
Irene rolls her eyes, but readies herself. John follows suit, still anxious to be sight-reading in front of Sherlock, and desperately wanting to impress Irene to shut her up.   
They strike the first chord, and then wait nervously in the rest; Sherlock leads confidently onwards, though, and it seems to be going quite well. It’s not too fast, so John is able to keep up and play quite well. He thinks he misses a few notes, and wishes he had time to mark in a few fingerings (that passage really would be easier in second position), but overall he holds his own.   
Until Irene decides that Sherlock’s allegro is not fast enough. Her eighth notes begin to press forward. Sherlock glares, and tries to pull back the tempo. John is still trying to discern notes in his next run and feels himself pull away from the other two. Irene presses faster, and calls out, “it’s con brio*, Sherlock! I need more brio!” She throws her head back in a laugh, all the while continuing to play flawlessly.   
They make it to the first break, and Sherlock brings them screeching to a halt.   
“Sherlock? Something wrong?” Irene says coyly.   
“Stop. Pushing. The Tempo.” Sherlock’s voice remains even but only just.  
“It needs to go faster, Sherlock, You know that—“   
“John has never seen this piece. Now stop. Pushing. The tempo.”  
There is a long pause.   
“It’s getting a little warm in here, isn’t it?” Irene says. She pushes her jacket off her narrow shoulders to reveal a low-cut, teal top that looks like silk. Her skirt is black, pencil cut, but scrunched up her thighs to more easily accommodate her instrument between her knees.   
John stares. Sherlock’s eyes give her the once over, and then he returns his gaze to John.   
“Irene, I think it’s time for you to go.”  
“What?” John and Irene say in unison (though John’s voice carries wonder and gratitude, while Irene’s is shocked and slightly offended).  
“You hate Beethoven almost as much as I do. You sent us this piece because you wanted the pretence to come over here and possibly try to slip a few witty innuendos about “wood between your legs” – brava for restraining yourself—but your ultimate goal was to seduce not only myself, but John as well. You tried to sabotage the ‘rehearsal’ because you thought it had been musical aptitude of some kind that had awoken my interest in John sexually, so you sought to entice both of us that way, probably because you (quite rightly) assumed I wouldn’t be interested if John were excluded. However what you failed to account for is that first and foremost, John detests you and would never agree to a threesome with you (especially one in which you were set to dominate). And secondly, there may have been a moment or two where I was intrigued by you in the past, even mildly impressed by your intellect and audacity, but do not think for one moment that I would betray John so badly as to stoop to sleeping with you.”  
John’s response is automatic. “Brilliant.”   
Irene’s mouth opens and closes. She shrugs her jacket back on. “I can see I’ve made a mistake, then. Keep the music, though. Perhaps sometime we can rehearse properly. John, please accept my ... apologies.” She packs her cello with care but as quickly as she can, hoists the case onto her back, and only hesitates a second before dashing out the door.  
A moment passes between John and Sherlock. They lock eyes with each other, both hesitant and not sure what to say.   
Another moment passes. John shifts on his feet. “Thank you,” he whispers.   
Sherlock closes the gap between them and pulls John into his arms forcefully. “As soon as I realised what she was after, I—“  
“I know. Thank you.” John stretches up to kiss Sherlock, and the taller man meets him halfway for a long, slow kiss. When they break apart, John nearly whimpers. Sherlock seems to sense John’s feeling, and returns to kiss him soundly again.   
“Do you want to...?” Sherlock asks in a barely audible whisper.   
A huge grin fills John Watson’s face. “Race you.”  
Like a couple of school children, the two race back to the living room. Sherlock vaults over the couch and John skirts around it like a rabbit.   
They pick up their instruments.  
“Measure 86,” they say together.  
xXx  
“You know,” Sherlock says in between pressing kisses to John’s shoulder, “I think you rather enjoyed Irene’s visit after all.”  
“Beg your pardon?”  
“Oh come on, it’s obvious that you were aroused by my defence of you, as well as the possessiveness I demonstrated towards you.”  
John feels himself blush, and tugs the sheets up a bit over his naked body. Sherlock puts a hand on John’s forearm and pushes the sheet back down. “Don’t,” he says. “I want to see all of you. You are mine,” Sherlock growls, but quickly amends, “and I am yours.”  
“Indeed,” John teases, and he snuggles up against Sherlock’s pale chest, snaking an arm around the detective’s narrow hips.  
“John, I... I’ve only had one duet partner before you. Back at uni. He was technically very skilled, but his playing style lacked feeling. Much like mine does.”  
John opens his mouth to protest. “Please,” Sherlock says. “Our playing fit because everything we did was technically correct. But there was no feeling, no passion. Music needs that. A... relationship... needs that.” He clears his throat uncomfortably, but presses on quickly.  
“But you, with your playing, your playing is warm and supportive and you adjust to my pitches and tone and articulations... Just as you always do. You are not as skilled as my last partner was, but you are the only person I ever want to duet with. You bring out the best of my playing. You bring out the best of me. John Watson, I daresay that I love you.”  
John yanks Sherlock’s face up to meet his and kisses him with as much fervour as he can muster.   
“I love you, too, Sherlock.” And John kisses him deeply again, tongue teasing into the violinist’s mouth.  
He pulls back though, a wicked grin crossing his face.   
“Let’s go practice. Right now.”  
“Why are you grinning like that? I would love to rehearse with you, just let me find my pants—“  
“Naked.”  
Sherlock chuckles. “That,” he says as he presses kisses into John’s hair, “is a completely mad idea.”  
Sherlock grabs John’s hand and pulls him off the bed, dashing back into the living room.   
He almost throws his violin to his shoulder, and John is not far behind.  
“From the top!” he calls joyously, and the two of them strike merrily upon the opening chord of Mozart’s Duo in G major.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't actually played the Mozart or the Beethoven pieces, but I thought they fit musically into what I wanted. (I made up those measure numbers, sorry xD). John's disgust with the key of E flat major is my own. Three flats just isn't fun on a stringed instrument.


End file.
